


May God Have Mercy (Cause I Won't)

by dandyandy



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Blood, Fake AH Crew, Gen, Los Santos, Murder, Pre-Fake AH Crew, Torture, Violence, all the other gruesome things, eventually there might be smut?, i'll update it as the story goes on, not sure who else will be in this, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 23:36:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9294629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandyandy/pseuds/dandyandy
Summary: los Santos is nothing less than a wild ride. from The gas station robberies to full out bank heists, the city provides far more than enough to keep a person entertained.





	

**Author's Note:**

> look at me, writing another story when i haven't updated CVC in a month and a half. #bestauthorever

“Stupid fucker!” Oh boy, how he loved the people who thought that combination of words was anything but menacing. It was pathetic, really. Sure the man in front of him was considerably larger, in width rather than height, but the blue-eyed beauty knew much better than to let himself get in any position where an excessive amount of weight would have an advantage on him. The bowling ball, though? That man thought he was the greatest fighter. Jackie Chan had nothing on his moves.

“Are you going to hit me or just keep swinging those meat bags of yours around?” The Vagabond laughed at his own insult, taking no time in dodging the measly punch. He returned it with a harsh blow to the man’s jaw, an unceremonious cackle pouring from his lips. Everything from the man’s footwork to his shitty combover was sloppy, and it was rather cringe worthy to watch him try to fling his abdomen extensions in an attempt to harm the other.

“Shut the fuck up, Vagabond. Once my men get here, you’re toast.”

“Why can’t I be a bagel instead?”

“Wh-” The Vagabond took the man’s momentary confusion as a window of opportunity to shove the tip of his favorite blade into his neck. The big boy gurgled as blood flooded his airways, and with a swift blow to the side of his knee he went down. 

“Tell your men I love them, mmkay?” His words were crooned, and as he ripped the knife from the man’s flesh the man could hear doors being kicked open and guns firing randomly. Well that was unexpected. Not that he wasn’t prepared to take care of them, but it was just a surprise that Tubby’s men were so close. The Vagabond stepped away from the man on the ground and went to slide a new magazine into his gun. It was a gorgeous platinum-plated AK-12, one that the Vagabond took everywhere with him. Sure it was a Russian gun but it fired beautifully. He raised it, barrel aimed carefully at the height where he knew heads would appear once the door swung open. It was an acquired talent, guessing the average height of the infiltrators, and the Vagabond was rather good at it. He once even killed three people with one bullet, which he insisted gave him bragging rights. 

The moment the door opened his finger squeezed the trigger. The recoil, the pop and bang of each bullet, was all too familiar to react. His feet stayed planted firmly, his shoulder relaxed to account for the recoil from the butt of the gun. Bullets hit directly where they were meant to, and in no time the four men at the door were now four men on the floor. Sure those guys were dead but the Vagabond wasn’t stupid. Of course there were more waiting outside for him. The men he killed were probably rookies, pawns. Too bad, so sad. That’s what they got for working for a sweaty mouth breather. Cocking his gun after reloading with a fresh clip, the masked man stepped out of the office as if he hadn’t just murdered five people in cold blood. He didn’t. It was in warm blood. Humans were warm-blooded. Dumbass. His footsteps were nigh silent as he walked along, the art of silence something he practiced on a daily basis. It was embarrassing, how the Vagabond could effortlessly slip fingers into a back pocket. Sure it was an intermediate skill to have but when it came down to stealing key cards and codes, it was very beneficial. Blue eyes scanned the area, barrel raising immediately after the blur of shadows to his right moved just a little too much. The man dropped to the floor in a crumpled pile of limbs and oozing blood, the Vagabond’s lip curling beneath the rubber that separated him from the filth before him. He began forward, finger curled around the trigger of his rifle held like a child in his arms. Nothing could separate them. Except, maybe, if his arms got chopped off. Surely he’d hear a saw or something similar before that’d happen, though.

The hallways were empty as he strolled through the office building, whole body tense with excited anticipation for the next stupid head to pop out. Nothing was better than catching some dumb idiot off-guard, especially when the poor lad thought he was prepared to fire a gun. Usually the dumb idiot wouldn’t even know how to handle the recoil. If they were lucky they’d land a few shots relatively close, but to their dismay the Vagabond would have his sights set on them before anything else could happen. It was amusing, the amount of bullets he’d heard and felt whizz by. Inexperienced gunmen were his favorite, especially when it was obvious that they were trying their hardest.

“Come out, come out, and play!” The Vagabond’s singsong voice echoed, the peeling wallpaper seemingly unamused as the mold hidden within rotted its adhesive. He hummed a simple tune as boots tread lightly across dirty carpet, rifle resting on his shoulder as if it were an accessory and not a murder weapon. His heart beat echoed in his ears, the silence around him making it feel ten times louder. It was  _ too _ quiet. Blue eyes flickered between the staircase to his left and the open window at the end of the hallway, holding his breath as he approached said window. The Vagabond made it about halfway before the lights around him went out and he was sent into darkness. He turned around, silhouetted by the neon lights that shone in through the curtains fluttering over the window. It was still as silent as the death that littered the floor, but blue eyes were wide and alert. No movement would go unnoticed, and as he went to spin around to look behind him, the failed electrician made a fatal move.

The masked man whipped back around, meeting the barrel of a high caliber rifle pointed at his throat. Without even thinking the Vagabond drew his own weapon, instinct telling him to shoot but reason telling him to wait. He knew that this person was meaning to hurt him, withdraw information, or was simply defensive, and so the masked man waited. Silence filled the air around them once more, and while the shadows hid his features, the Vagabond could tell that the man that stood before him intentions other than murdering him.

“Vagabond,” the man’s voice rang out. It sounded like firecrackers in a cooking pot, piercing his ears. He had an idea of who this stranger was, and as his brain whirred with ideas of what to say, he saw that the other was not alone. A bright red dot danced over his chest and shadows moved to his right and left. It was easy to tell that these people weren’t riding their first rodeo, and as the Vagabond let the silence settle he immediately disrupted it.

“Fakes,” he replied. The masked man barked out a laugh as the man in front of him seemed to falter a tad. Or, well, that’s what it seemed like to the mercenary. The barrel quivered, and so to him, it fell into the category of a falter. A nervous, semi-conscious behavior that revealed far more kryptonites than a normal person would perceive. The Vagabond did more things than a ‘normal’ person anyways. Murdering five people without batting an eyelash was beyond “normal” and even a little weird.

“What do you want, and why are you using an ASh-12.7? This is Los Santos, not Moscow.” The man scoffed and took a step closer, the aforementioned assault rifle now pressed against the hollow between his collarbones.

“Listen, Vagabond. I’m not fucking around here. You know why we’re here, and if you don’t give us the money and jewelry in ten seconds I’ll blow that fuckin’ stone cold heart right outta your chest.” Ah, the redhead. What a charming man. The Vagabond scoffed and relaxed, dropping his weapon to a relaxed position, barrel still aimed at vital parts of the other.

“It’s been a while, Mogar. Cooled off any?” To be honest, the Vagabond hadn’t seen Mogar for months. He hadn’t seen Mogar or the rest of his crew for that matter. While the Vagabond was busy being cocky he didn’t catch the sight of a fist in his peripheral vision. Another had snuck up behind him, knocked the gun from his hands, and caught him clean in the jaw. He stumbled but drew another gun, miraculously, from a hidden holster. Mogar had moved while he had been blindsided, and now the Vagabond could see the silhouette of their sniper perched on the rooftop across from them. “If you’ve come to mug me, I’ll be happy to inform you that there is, in fact, no money or jewels hidden within my possession.” The Vagabond scanned the area around him again and, a rather idiotic move on his part, backed toward the window. Once his shoulder blades pressed against the glass the Vagabond looked at men around him, Mogar not the only familiar one that joined him in what was supposed to be his solo hit. 

“Working for the lowest of lows now? Or are you just bored.” A gravelly voice to his right brought his gaze over. Before him stood the King of the Idiots, Geoffrey Ramsey. The Vagabond barked out a laugh, shouldering his rifle once more. It was accessible at any moment, but showing the kingpin any sort of disrespect was something the masked man relished in. 

“Please. God knows I’d never take a job from you,” he smirked. It wasn’t visible to the crew but his tone said everything. “If you’d excuse me, ladies, I have a bank safe to crack.” The Vagabond waved his hand lightly as he stepped forward to push through the four, ignoring the hands of a shorter man that pressed against his chest. He spun a bit to dislodge the midget’s arms and continued toward the stairs, ears alert for any sort of footstep or shuffle. When nobody came after him the mercenary began down the stairs, humming softly.

He’d reached the landing of the stairs when an ugly vase next to him exploded. Blue eyes locked onto the shattered glass, lips pressed into a line as the gears in his head spun. A hand hovered over the holster strapped securely to his thigh, fingers twitching as he anticipated something to happen. Sure, he’d been cocky, but the Vagabond knew better than to let the enemy think they won. Turning on his heel he looked up at them, gaze shifting from their shadowed faces to the handgun aimed at him. Guns didn’t scare him. If anything, guns were a challenge. The Vagabond shifted his weight before sliding his rifle from under his arm like a purse to across his chest, thumb switching the safety off. It clicked, audible to all, and as he stared up at Mogar, Geoffrey, and the other two, the Vagabond smirked beneath the rubber covering his face.

“A threat or a challenge?” His voice was smooth, monotonous. It filled the air and hung in the men’s ears, a pleasant sensation in his chest left behind. The aesthetic didn’t last long, though.

“You have what we need. Physical money or not, we need that passcode.” Ramsey’s voice sliced through the air, and as blue eyes flickered their gaze to him the Vagabond laughed. 

“You need it like I need a goiter. Don’t you have any convenience stores to be robbing? If you have serious business inquiries regarding child’s play, talk to someone who gives a shit.” He turned again, an angry headache starting as the mercenary proceeded to take a step down the stairs again. A shuffle behind him made him hesitate, and just as the masked man was about to swing at whoever was approaching him, the sight of a metal bat glinted in the moonlight from the window. The aluminum struck the side of his head, his vision blurring. The Vagabond stumbled and before he knew it his knees had buckled beneath him.

“You have what we need,” the Fake kingpin hissed in his ear. It was the only thing he remembered before the pulsating throb in his temple took over.


End file.
